Total War
by orchidica
Summary: Two people. Two years. Two trillion zombies. Can they survive?
1. Capsized (ch5)

Rain fell as if the world weeped for them. The water raged, waves splashing heavily against the sides of their small boat, knocking valuable supplies and weaponry into the murky water, tipping it back and forth dangerously. The duo were soaked to the skin, shivering as they quickly scraped their brains for a plan, removing their knapsacks from their backs and rifling through them. If one were able to peer under the water they would be met with a sight even more unnerving.

Someone had set an intricate trap crafted of wires and natural rock, acting as a net of some sort, and their boat had caught onto it, unable to continue. The trap had served its intended purpose, unfortunately for the two, and hundreds of decaying bodies swarmed beneath, fleshless arms and, sometimes fingerless, hands reached up, scraping the bottom of the boat. Their jaws slackened, opening and closing as they bumped into one another, causing more disturbance in the water, as if there wasn't enough already. Despite this, the wind was the worst of it all for the pair, the kind of wind that makes one want to howl back, constantly whipping their damp hair about their faces, hindering their sight.

The smaller of the two desperately searched the numerous pockets of his bag, finally finding the section that held their dwindling food supply and pulling out the last of it - a small, burlap bag that held all the meat they had scavenged on their way to the dock. It was still uncooked, and dripped with blood as he unwrapped it from the plastic they had carefully stored it in and tossed it into the churning waters. The maddening scratching beneath them stopped, and slowly numerous heads covered in matted, stringy hair, or just greenish, flaking flesh, began to rise from the water, heading on a right angle away from the boat and into shallower water, towards the floating, bleeding slabs several feet away.

The two retrieved what few things were left scattered across the slippery deck, stopping to shoot as many bobbing heads as they could, and packed the wet supplies into their bags quickly, firmly strapping them on. They both surveyed the water, which had turned cloudy and crimson with all the mixed blood, before diving into it with an almost inaudible splash, the heavy rain covering the sound. They surfaced, gasping for air as the boat behind them finally tipped with a groan; they took one more breath before submerging and swimming a loop around the horde, making for shore as stealthily as one could in this situation. When their feet could just touch the sandy floor beneath them they resurfaced and began to run out of the water, discarding stealth for a, hopefully, fast escape.

They dashed across the beach, kicking up sand that stuck to their old and tattered damp clothing like glue. Both pairs of eyes scanned the area, weathered minds dreading the fact they would have to enter the city. It was just their luck New York had been hit the hardest, and they were now stranded in it, no less in one of the most infested kinds of areas. They stopped when they were a safe distance from the water, the taller bending forward and leaning her hands on her knees as they both caught their breath.

But alas, fate would not allow them a moments rest today and both stomachs dropped as a cacophony of moans raised over the pounding rain to their left; as they turned they were met with a horde of undead that all but took up half the stretch of sand. The geeks moaned and thrashed, lunging towards the pair as they took off into the labyrinth of NYC, avoiding main streets and weaving through back alleys instead, attempting to lose the deadly wave behind them.

They made a sharp right down an alley that few staggering undead occupied, eight heads turning towards them. They both pulled their close range weapons from their packs - the male wielding a machete caked with dried blood, his partner a battle-weathered, recently cleaned hunting knife. They moved out like soldiers, taking down the closest ones with ease. As the others shuffled towards them the horde turned the corner, squeezing down the small alley, quickly zeroing in on the two. The male sunk a good inch of his blade into the skull of a lunging zombie with a sickening crack just as his comrades victim made a similar noise, followed by a decaying anatomy hitting the ground with a dull thud.

"Mo! In here!" she called over the deafening noise of both horde and ever vigilant rain, plus the added moans of the four remaining Z's in front of them; she wrenched open the door of a seemingly deserted and dark gas station, pulling her partner in before shutting and barring it with a nearby 2x4. They pressed themselves against the wall tightly, sticking to the shadows and holding their breath as the horde stumbled right by, chasing ghosts. Less than a minute later the dragging of feet and low guttural sounds faded.

All was still.

Silent.

The male, Morgan, looked up at his panting comrade beside him, tightening a strap on his bag that had been loosened in the chaos, speaking abit breathlessly.

"Hey Batsy, think there are any burgers in this place?"


	2. Quirks (ch6)

Much to Morgans dismay, there were no meat products derived from cattle of any sort to be found. In fact, there wasn't much of anything at all; the place had been completely cleared out. The rain had died down somewhat, rhythmically drumming on the thin roof above them.

Morgan quietly scanned the empty alley from a broken window and Marceline sat atop a dust caked counter, legs crossed, using an old, tattered rag to wipe the viscous, nearly black matter off her knife. It ended up smearing it even more, to her utter frustration. "Two years of this shit and I don't think we've ever had a better shower." "I don't think we've ever seen that many goons packed in one place. This city is a deathtrap." "And we're caught in it." she mumbled, giving up on the knife and sheathing it in its small leather case, placing it back in the bag at her side.

"We'll go back to scavenge whatever supplies are left when the rain lets up. We'll make this place a temp for now." she slid off the counter, brushing herself off before they both searched the area for things to barricade with. They barred the windows with fallen ceiling panels and the package of spare nails they kept in their bags; they barricaded the door by pushing over a shelf, careful not to let it crash to the tiled floor. Morgan picked up a lone bag of snacks that had fallen on the floor and opened it, taking out a chip before turning the opening towards Marceline, who did the same. It was silent for a moment, the only noise the quiet crunching and the lightening rain.

It was broken by the squeaking and crumbling of the bag as they finished and Morgan tossed it over his shoulder. "I'll take watch." Marceline nodded at him as removed his knapsack from his back and set it down gently, leaning against the wall opposite the shelf covering the door. Marceline curled herself atop the counter, using her bag as a pillow, shifting until she felt relatively comfortable.

Minutes passed before she finally drifted off and Morgan sat there with just the rain and his thoughts. He started planning their route back to the wreckage, thinking back to their original path to the dock. It hadn't started raining when they left and they hadn't planned on the weather changing for a few more hours, let alone finding and taking a sailable boat. They had originally ventured to the docks to see off two good soldiers they had recently lost; he felt a twinge of grief at the memory of the tiny, twin coffin serenely drifting off into the previously calm waters.

"The smell is gonna attract Zack. We can't stay here; we need to pack up and leave before they find us." "We can't just leave them to rot, Marcy." "I know that! I know..." she trailed off from her knelt position beside the two small, limp corpses. She absentmindedly ran a gentle hand along the thin creature's black, tufted tail as Morgan searched the room. He found a small wooden box and retrieved a few rags from their supply packs, delicately folding the faded navy to mold to the bottom of the box like a carpet. Marceline sacrificed three cotton balls to line them along one side of it – pillows. They both, ever so carefully, picked up the bodies, to each his own, and gently placed them together in the makeshift coffin.

Marceline folded the last, tattered maroon rag over them; she paused then reached in her pack and pulled out a slowly wilting rose, the few, delicate white petals remaining beginning to turn up and fade to grey at the sides. The thin, slightly bent stem had tiny teeth marks on it and she placed it in the middle of the box, gingerly sliding the top over it with a, almost final, low scraping noise.

Morgan knelt down next to her and pulled out a small knife, beginning to carve sharp, choppy letters into the top. A name. Pause. A date. Pause; repeat. A final word. He brushed the remaining shavings off, standing and lifting the box with him. As he adjusted his bag to carefully fit the box in it his partner finally brought herself to stand and begin to collect all their things scattered around the room.

It was a shame they had to leave; they had completely fortified the apartment building. But no matter the structure, it could not block the scratching, the moaning, the shuffling, the occasional screams and tearing of flesh or snapping of bones. The noises that drove even the most calm and self-aware man insane after days and days of nonstop torture.

Even if soundproof, it still wouldn't stop the thoughts. The knowledge. The knowledge that they're out there, still; surrounding them, waiting. The knowledge that they were mindless, and would stop at nothing to see them perished. That was the scariest part – there was not one bit of humanity left in them. No amounts of pleading or reason would change anything. They would hunt them until death, and on even then.

The two gathered the last of their things and cautiously descended the several flights of stairs. They stopped on the second floor, a feeling of dread creeping over them. They remembered destroying the staircase and quietly walked over to the edge of its remains – undead swarmed the floor below them, some dragging their feet around behind them, others leaning motionless with their heads facing the walls. There was a groan or two here and there. They crept backwards, morale draining as they realized they'd have to take the fire exit.

"The alarm isn't going to go unnoticed." Marceline breathed, standing next to the large, red labeled door, slipping her Magnum from its holster. "I know. How are we gonna do this?" "Like a band-aid." She replied simply before pushing hard on the door, swinging it open and flying down the empty stairwell as the alarm screeched behind them. Morgan just behind her, they skipped stairs as they went, hearing the uprising of moans above them; they burst out the ground floor door straight into the face of a horde.

The first moaners turned, snarling and snapping their jaws, lunging towards them. Marceline shot – one corpse fell, revealing several more behind it. A few more later and they ripped away from the deadly tide, hurling themselves down the alley and mistakenly into a main road crawling with more undead. Both guns fired and numerous shells bounced to the ground as the duo scrambled down the road, now joined hordes chasing them. The alarm screamed behind them even still – they turned down another alley, taking down the few wandering goons on the way.

Morgan stopped abruptly, pulling Marceline back with him as he reached up and forcefully pulled down a ladder to what got them in this mess to begin with – another fire escape. He laced his fingers and gave her a boost, following after her just as the horde crowded beneath them. They both leaned against the creaky railing, gasping for breath as the swarm beneath them snarled angrily at their lost meal. Marceline glanced at Morgan with the tiniest of grins, uttering the final line of her previous sentence.

Morgan smiled at the memory and murmured along with it. "Quick and easy."

They had stayed the night in the third floor apartment, scavenging little food and some medical supplies from the cabinets in the blood stained bathroom. It smelled like death, and they dared not pull back the shower curtain off the bloody arm that hung limp on the side of the bathtub. The atmosphere eerily sang self destruction, so they decided to leave it well alone. It seemed to have shook Marceline abit, so they gave each other some time to themselves, a rarity with the two. She stood on the fire escape, staring out into the dark, choked sky, full of debris and decay and smoke and death. It was as red as the streets and as foreboding as a horde. She stood in silent mourn for it.


	3. Loss (ch8)

Pain dripped into his pool of consciousness like a leaky faucet. Dreadfully antagonizing but he could manage. Then suddenly someone turned the pressure on full and he jolted awake with a series of rasped coughs.

His wrists and ankles felt heavy and he couldn't move. His aching mind swirled as the events of the past three days came running back to him, an eager child to his parent, and he tugged weakly at his bonds.

The ropes wouldn't snap, loosen or even fray in the slightest. She kicked, thrashed, bit, scratched, sobbed, screamed. They laughed. She might as well have been a stressed hummingbird mindlessly battering itself against a window pane.

Her chest hurt.

Her arms, hands, legs, feet.

Her head.

Everything. Fucking. Hurt.

She curled in on herself from her knelt position in an attempt to lessen the agony. As one reached for her she spit crimson saliva in his face and it earned her a shattered rib, an already beginning to bruise eye socket and a steady blood flow from her left nostril. A chipped molar bounced across the concrete, rolling into the shadows, leaving a wispy blood trail. Red blood cells and salt water dampened her cheeks as she stared at the cold, dark, bare floor, peering into her own soul.

It mocked him. This is what happens when you make selfish, careless decisions, he thought. It comes back to you three times over.

He felt scabs beginning to form over the plethora of injuries that littered his face, arms and torso. About a half of a liter of his own blood pooled around the chair he was molded to. "Why don't you fucking cowards untie me and fight me?!" the raspy sound bounced off the walls.

"Maybe you would, if you weren't such sons of b-" the sound of harsh skin contact echoed sharply through the cell and her head snapped aside from the rage induced blow. She laughed humourlessly and spit a dark globule onto the floor beside her with a sick splat. "Fuck me, I actually felt that one. You aren't a bunch of girls after all."

"What are a few teeth? Not much to eat around here anyway." he muttered, coughing violently and doubling over as crimson dripped from his lips. He stayed curled over; the pressure bearing down on his broken ribs let up that way. "Don't suppose you bastards have a cough drop or two?"

"No, but we've got something else you can occupy your mouth with." They all snickered, elbowing each other and her stomach did a backflip. "I'd rather die." "Oh, inevitably, in a week or two. Your friend, however..."

Her chest tightened. "You have what you want. Let him go." she rasped, and she could feel the repetitive drip, drip, drip of blood into her lungs, her internal clock ticking down with every drop.

"Why don't you fuckers show yourself?!" he challenged again, his head still resting on his shaking kneecaps. His vision was blurring in and out, and he could swear he felt his snapped rib scraping against his lung membrane. He watched the blood swirl around him growing, slowly crawling away.

He was walking, walking down the stairs, down the hallway, knock knock knocking on eternity's door, the sound echoing in his head. He felt Death answer and peer out with empty, soulless eyes just as his own lids crashed down like a broken curtain.

"Now, that would be no fun. But we're done with him. We'll let the biters have the remains." Her mind began to race and any colour left in her face drained all the way down to her toes and onto the floor, joining the rest.

One of them noted it and grinned maliciously. "You think we kept him alive? What for?"  
"What do you have to gain from lying?" her voice wavered despite how hard she tried to keep it steady.

"Lying? Not to a lady." one mocked and another flicked on a white, blinding light that she only saw for a second or two until her sluggish reflexes kicked in and her eyes squeezed shut. Orange blotches floated around her blackened vision, distracting her from the pain and for a minute she was content; that is, until she worked up the energy to face reality and wrench them open.

There was a glass pane a foot up in front of her, like a window to another cell. On the other side was a slouched and blood caked Morgan, motionless in his chair, head down. It was silent for a moment.

The sound that burst from her sounded like a fatally wounded animal and it was followed by a long string of hateful insults.

She was a typhoon. Large, angry. Hateful. Swirling with relentless rage; her strength was none compared to the several holding her down. But, she pushed on, refusing to stop until her bonds vanished, the bastards vanished; every human, every zombie, everything; vanished.

No matter how many wishes or pleas she sent to whatever powers had long abandoned them were unheard and she finally stilled. She was a sea born shell. Hollow, empty. Weathered. Cracked.

A harsh wave hit in the form of a calloused hand, sending her tumbling across the rocky beach and she plunged into the unforgiving waters - the cold, black, bottomless depths.


	4. Broken (ch9)

The difference between Marceline and her mother was very simple. Marceline swerved to avoid hitting road kill out of respect for their lost life. Her mother didn't want intestines nor blood spatter on her new Porsche.

Mom was ice queen; her only friends ravishing vanity and irresistible money - as fake as the ones that came over for brunch every Sunday.

Human morals long abandoned, she held herself like she had a pole lodged in her spine and something constantly balancing on her chin. Her mouth was always turned up in either a condescending sneer – most popular when she regarded her "pathetic excuse of an offspring" - or an artificial smile laced with plastic malice.

Marceline hated her smile. It was as white and neat as her $5,000 (custom-made, she would add in a pristine voice) Armani suit. Deities protect whoever all but breathes in its obsessively ironed direction.

Just like her mother's individuality when she was a teenager a dim, light flickered on and off in the corner of Marceline's vision, drawing her attention. As she lifted her head, her hazy chocolate eyes sliding open to look up at it, it flickered out, and the room was once again engulfed with darkness.  
A darkness that covered all the cracks in the stone and the dried blood caking the cold, unforgiving floor that she lay so stiff upon.

But her eyes were open.

She could see.

Theoretically, anyway.

As her eyes adjusted, the window appeared -a dark smudge of a square. She squinted, trying to see beyond it. Past the shadow. To Morgan. She had been delusional when she first saw him. He was definitely breathing. Right?

Of course. Don't be stupid.

The sigh hurt her (probably broken ribs) and she grimaced as she tried to push herself up off the floor. Her arms shook so bad it was distracting, so she just gently laid herself back down, pressing her forehead to the cool slate. Her eyes squeezed shut as she cleared her head, breathing in a pattern.

Gerbils scattered and turned to dust in her memory as she shook her head, pushing herself up once again to an agonizing sit. She hunched over slightly, gasping for air before she felt her way to the blurry window and pulled herself up. She collapsed against the glass, gory hands streaking its smooth surface red, the fog from her quick breath hindering her vision even more.

There was no chair. There was no Morgan. The room was empty- very, very blurry and heavily bloodstained, but empty.

Maybe she had been hallucinating.

They had been short on rations lately, and cut their meals to once, maybe twice a day if they were lucky.

Speaking of, the dizziness buzzed behind her eyes again and she collapsed to a sit, leaning her head back against the cool concrete wall. Her hazy eyes scanned the room. No vents or windows. Probably the basement, then. The door was bolted shut from the other side, and the window on it was barred.

Or maybe this was all just a fucked up trip and there were no zombies and she was in a police interrogation room, finally coming down. It would be worth her mother's screams.

If only.

Certain that if she didnt leave soon she'd be eaten, Marceline forced herself to stand and make her way to the door. It felt like her insides were dragging behind her as she walked, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

She felt her hand brush against the handle of the door and, as useless as she knew it was, tugged down on it.

It opened.

What the fuck?

She immediately looked around the hallway - empty, as far as she could tell. She inched quietly around the door, shutting and locking it after her. Maybe they'll think she's supernatural or some shit.  
She creeped down the hallway, searching for a stray pipe or a loose floorboard or something she could defend herself with. She knelt and slipped a hand in her boot, hope squeezing her eyes shut.

She felt the handle of her small switchblade and breathed a sigh of relief, standing and flicking it open with a sharp snap of her wrist. She could almost feel luck sitting on her shoulder.  
The silver, engraved knife gleamed in the buzzing fluorescent lighting as she held it up, examining it for any damage. She heard footsteps and froze, eyes flickering around before she pressed into the shadows of a wall, breath falling shallow. Two familiar voices echoed into her ear, and she held her breath as they walked by. They made it to the end of the hall, unlocking the door. One of them peered in, and immediately yelled.

"Where the fuck did she go?!"

Marceline's heart nearly jumped out of her chest as the two ran into the room and she moved down the hall with tense speed. Just as the two turned, making to leave, Marceline slammed the door shut on them, bolting it.

Their protests, screams, and degrading profanities fell on deaf ears as she tossed stealth aside and ran down the hall, her grip on her knife tightening.

She crouched as she neared an intersection of halls, and she took the right on a whim. It worked in video games, and reality's rules didn't really apply anymore, so why the hell not?


End file.
